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| "MOOSE HUNT" |
| The relentless pursuit of idleness and summer dreams began to fade from green to yellow. Chili mornings and pungent fireweed greeted each day with a new excited whispering. "It's almost here. It's almost here," the rhythm moved through winsome range until Anchorage came to feel it too. Hunting season, the king of all outdoor activities was almost upon us and the highest ambition of all was that of moose. Such was the fervency and reverence given this pursuit that during the later days of August a hush would come over the city, a hush of such magnitude that even vegetarians would pause for a moment of silence. "It's time," my dad said, "time for you to participate!" He borrowed our neighbor's pump action 30.06 and we packed up to go. We packed up our early 70's 28' Pace Arrow motorhome and hooked on the trailer with a special dune buggy converted to hunting rig. We had my dad's best hunting partner and his two sons with us. As night fell, we pulled into a clearing off the main road. It was an informal shooting range. My dad marked off the brief outlines of a moose on a folding card table box and set it out about 50 yards. Listening to my dad's instructions about slowly squeezing and breathing I finally loosed off a round. I hit dead center two inches from the bottom, right in the stomach. I sensed the breach in protocol this created but knowing my wavering confidence, my father said simply, "Looks good. Let's go." We arrived late and got ready for bed. I had my nightly glass of water and asked innocently, "How will we know when to get up?" Mr. Lindemuth gave his characteristic high pitched laugh and said they could depend on my biological clock. I wasn't sure what he meant but it sounded sinister. Sure enough in the early morning hours, nature came through and we pulled ourselves together and headed out. I don't remember a lot about that morning. I did get lost briefly once or twice and dueling the hated alder. I finally heard a shot and rejoined my dad. A young bull had trotted though a series of three clearings. I dad saw him in the first and was ready for him by the third. It was decided to break for lunch. There being a lack of dry seats available, we sat on the moose, who didn't seem to mind. After a light hearted lunch, the skinning knives came out. As the moose was dressed out into game bags, a problem arose. Everybody's load was assigned leaving the backbone for me. I had an old army surplus packing frame and try as we might, we simply couldn't get the lengthy piece to balance. In frustration, my dad looked me over from the top to the bottom and suddenly said, "Ah ha!" With that, he flicked my belt out of my trousers and began to tighten the top of the spine to my forehead. "Let's go," he said and the troop moved out. The suddenness of the event left me unprepared as I scrambled after the retreating packers. "Wait for me," I said. The seriousness of my predicament soon became obvious. My center of gravity had shifted up 18 inches leaving me like the knights of old - a grand sight but in deathly fear of falling over. I started to panic as I fell further behind. I could feel the meat leering at me as if to say, "If I go down, I'm taking you with me and you'll never get up again." "Oh no," I though to myself. All my life I'd read about the ignorance of people who ventured off into the voids of Alaska, unlucky souls who for some reason or other exceeded their abilities or fell prey to circumstances. I did not want to join them. For some reason it did not occur to me that my dad would likely miss me and come back. With grim determination, I fought to keep my balance step by step. Of course it would have helpful if I could have looked down but others have had it worse with favorable outcome, thus I felt hopeful. Things got ticklish only once when I had to step between two fallen trees. I pushed deep into the red line of my mental inclinometer and somehow fell out the other side still standing. Up one last hill was the dune buggy and I shuffled up the last steps to collapse gratefully into the dirt. Not so eager hands slowly untied me and tossed me up on the back of the buggy with the rest of the cargo. I didn't mind. Survival is it's own reward. Later, I lay throbbing on the back bed as the Pace Arrow hurtled through the darkness like a cavernous ambulance. Too late for some I thought eyeing the game bags but perhaps in time for others. As I listened to the strains of "Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" I pondered the hunting mystic - it's magnetic attraction. Why was this so? The predominant answer was ruled out immediately - that it is fun. The next one was trickier. I had heard that in times of war or extreme duress that a type of male bonding occurred. Something rarely found and uniquely cherished. Unfortunately, the only bonding I had was with a dead backbone. The experience left me strangely unfulfilled. The most basic answer was that we hunt for the meat - for food. I wasn't my place to argue this but even when things were tight mom seemed to have no problem cooking up some ground round and hamburger helper. No, this would remain for me a mystery. I was content to be home and let Scotty beam someone else up. David Loomis copyright 2000 Disclaimer: Hunting big game is an honored tradition - especially here in Alaska. I, however, prefer going after something smaller - like fish. Enjoy your fall everyone. |
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